


Triton the Faithful

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Feels, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Triton is his dog, pet death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Bruce's beloved old dog finally passes away and the man is wrecked over it.





	Triton the Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> Not canon, but I figure this could definitely happen. It was written in memory of an old dog I loved dearly who passed away at thirteen this past year. Dogs are family. Love you Bonny.  
> Triton is mine but the rest of the characters are not. DC is not mine either.  
> Enjoy! Comments are welcome.

               The glass missed the edge of the bathroom counter and fell in a spray of whiskey and shards to the tile floor. He cursed, fumbling to mop up the mess one moment, then giving up within the next when his coordination proved too far gone.

                He gripped the counter ledge in both hands to keep steady, a tremble running from crown to toes. Eyes sliding closed, he inhaled the scent of lemon cleaner and the whiskey, his breath shuddering and he willed his gaze to the reflection he wished he wouldn’t find.

                Pale gray eyes washed out and weary sluggishly focused in the mirror. His hair was roughly finger combed, his shirt wrinkled but clean. A five o’ clock shadow marked his chin. He looked nothing like himself.

                And everything like he felt.

                Used. Tired. Worn to the bone until nothing but marrow was showing.

                He stared at himself until the tears burned at the backs of his eyes and he was forced to look away. He didn’t want to see the ruination anymore. He had no stomach for it.

                Shuffling out into the master bedroom, he found his bed as unmade as he’d left it. Stacks of books on both nightstands and his personal desk. Papers scattered and shredded in a rage that had only left him hollow and empty inside.

                His eyes fell to the empty dog bed that only a day previous had been filled by a scraggly old mutt and his chin quivered.

                Did he really have any tears left after the last few hours? He’d emptied an entire bottle of expensive whiskey, hadn’t he? Cried, like he hadn’t cried in years, over a mangy mutt that had only caused him trouble and bitten anything to get near it.

                He sucked in a breath and fisted a hand in his sweats as a sob rose in his throat.

                “Damn you, you little beast.”

                There was no heat behind the anger. Nothing but sorrow for what was lost, despite knowing that it had been coming.

                A knock sounded on his door and he jerked, “What is it?”

                There could be only one man outside his door. Alfred answered in a voice soft enough to be irritating to his drunken mind.

                “Bruce?”

                “I’m busy Alfred. Go away.”

                He wasn’t even aware of how slurred his speech sounded to the old man on the other side. Weaving back to his bed, he sat heavily then stared vacantly at his walls. How could they be the same when everything had changed?

                “Bruce, I’m coming in.”

                Bruce opened his mouth to argue, to yell at Alfred to leave him be, but wasn’t fast enough. The old man had already slipped in and was standing just inside the door. Like Bruce, he seemed struck by the chaos of his room. His eyes were shadowed and hesitant when they reached Bruce.

                “You’ve been drinking.”

                Bruce lifted a brow “And?”

                “How much have you had?”

                “Last I checked, I’ve been old enough to do what I want for quite some time. Go away Al. I’m not good company,” unable to hide his grief now, he didn’t bother to dash away the evidence of tears on his face. He simply didn’t care.

                “I can see that.”

                But the old man didn’t leave. He stayed. Watching Bruce as though he were a snake about to bite, he strode carefully nearer then took a seat next to him.

                “I want to be alone.”

                “And I’ve left you alone for twelve hours. I think you need me.”

                “I don’t need you,” Bruce hissed, turning on Alfred with unchecked venom, “I don’t need anyone. Or anything for that matter.”

                But his gaze had fallen to that damn bed again and he felt sickness roil in his stomach. How could he ever sleep in this room without thinking of Triton? How could he toss his dirty laundry in the bin without remembering the way that mutt loved to rummage and shred underwear? Or how he dumpster dived any chance he got?

                Or how he preferred to sleep on Bruce’s feet at night, rather than his expensive therapeutic bed?

                “He was a good dog.”

                “No he wasn’t,” Bruce snapped, angry again as the tears came unchecked and fell to drip down his chin. The whiskey was losing to the grief and he was feeling far too much. Far too much. “If he was, he would have at least had the decency to die on a different day. ANY other day, then the anniversary of my parent’s murder. Or at least woken me up, so I could have beaten the sorry thing for trying to die in the first place.”

                “Yes, that was selfish of him. Triton was particularly selfish.”

                Bruce choked on another sob, “Sure he was. And snarly. And rude. And—” he sucked in a breath and let it out through his clenched teeth, “I loved that little bastard.”

                Alfred smiled sadly, “We both did Mater Bruce. He was special.”

                Bruce only nodded, too spent to say more. He’d never see Triton again. And that was his new reality.

                “Are you tired?”

                Bruce swiped at his cheeks, sighing heavily, “No.”

                “Want some company now?”

                He wanted to be left alone. He did better on his own. Always had. But there was something about the way Alfred looked that made him say otherwise. “Fine.”

                “Could you eat something?”

                “Bourbon?”

                Alfred lifted both brows, “You smell like a distillery. I think it better that we steer clear from any spirits. How about toast?”

                “I feel like a kid again.”

                Alfred reached over and patted his cheek, “My dear boy, when we grieve, we all become lost little children.”

                He left Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, exhausted to his core. Heartbroken. But when Bruce felt his eyes slipping closed, he didn’t fight it. He hadn’t slept in what felt like years.

                When Alfred returned, he found Bruce fast asleep in the middle of his mattress curled into himself. He never would have let Bruce see that it brought fresh tears to his own eyes to see the young man suffer. But it did. Pulling a blanket from the end of the bed, he covered Bruce gently, passed a fatherly hand over his cap of messy hair, then flipped off the light.

                The only thing that was missing, was the sound of a snoring old dog, who would be missed dearly.   


End file.
